by Jon Kiln
When the moment of levity passed, Rothar informed Peregrin of all that had transpired to bring him to this point, and why it was imperative that he take such drastic and dangerous measures as entering the presence of Bakal.
“I still think it’s a fools errand,” Peregrin said after he was finished. “Why not let the clan and I do some asking about next time we are in the badlands?”
“And when is that?” Rothar asked. “A month? Maybe two? For all I know the children are already dead, but if they are not, I have no time to waste.”
“Very well,” Peregrin said after a moment’s thought. “Bakal has spent the last year in the Rama settlement. He has built up quite a harem there. You can reach it by tonight if you rush, which you shouldn’t. There has been much unrest among the Southland clans, and some splinter groups have made settlements in the mountains. Last time we traveled through the Valley of Mourning we were waylaid by a band of the mongrels.”
Rothar was surprised. “The huntsmen have always been welcomed in the south, or at the very least tolerated.”
“Indeed,” Peregrin replied. “But these rebels think differently. What small shred of decency the traditional Southlanders possess is not present in these factions. We may not have made it through the valley alive had we not paid them off with half of our wares. On the return trip we climbed one of the eastern peaks to avoid a fight. God knows we would have had one, coming back across with nothing but gold.”
Rothar was frustrated. “I haven't time to pick my way across the mountains. I will have to use the pass. If anyone gets in my way, I suppose it will be the death of someone.”
“You had best take this, then.” Peregrin handed Rothar a small pouch. Inside, it was filled with ground cinnamon, which the huntsmen used to cure stomach pains. “Add a spot of water and rub it into your face and hands, it will give you a color passably close to that of the devils. Between that and the breastplate, you may be able to pass yourself off as a Southlander, albeit an ugly one.”
The two men shook hands in the traditional fashion of the huntsmen, grasping one another at the elbow rather than the palm. Rothar climbed atop Stormbringer and bid his childhood friend farewell. As he rode away, Peregrin called after him again.
“You should know, Taria is still there!” he shouted.
Rothar glanced back and nodded goodbye.
Chapter 15
Taria.
Decent people in the Southlands were very few and far between. The men were bred from boyhood to be indiscriminate killers for hire, but the girls were raised to be crooked and cunning. No one ever married in the Southlands. Women were taken by whatever man desired them, and fighting over women was a daily occurrence. Undoubtedly, more Southland men were killed by other jealous Southland men than by any of the King’s forces.
If a woman became displeased with the man who had taken her, she would often lie to him and tell him that another man had expressed interest in her. Without exception, that other man would be larger, more experienced and more skilled than her possessor, thereby she would be freed of her bondage when her man, bound by an unspoken code of honor, publicly attacked the larger man, who would cut him down. For the woman, however, the victory was always short lived, for before her man’s body was even cold, she would be claimed by another warrior.
Taria, however, was an anomaly in the desert. She was as cunning as anyone, north or south, but she was pure and good. She seemed to have not been born of the badlands, but sentenced there, in a place that was unworthy of her spirit.
As adolescents, whenever Rothar and Peregrin traveled to the Southlands with the clan, they would seek out Taria and the three would find all sorts of minor mischief to get into. By this time, all of the boys who were the age of the huntsmen lads were off in the desert, learning to kill and forgetting how to care. Only the girls remained behind, and most of them were already engaged in the business of sneaking and lying. They shot glares of distaste at the northern boys.
Taria was the exception. She could run as fast as Rothar and climb as high as Peregrin. She was already a skilled rider and she had no interest in the treacheries of female life in the southern desert. She never knew her father, as is the case with most Southland children, and her mother turned her out when she was very young. Taria lived in the stables and helped care for the mercenary’s horses in exchange for room and board.
To Rothar, Taria was an equal, not a girl. Over the years of visits, however, Taria grew to care deeply for Rothar in the way that a woman would. As the years passed, Taria grew nearer and nearer the age when a Southland woman can be taken by a man. The trio never talked about it, but they all know it was the case. Each time the huntsman clan came though, Taria looked more and more worried. Rothar noticed that she fidgeted a lot and her eyes darted about nervously whenever she was in public. She stayed much closer to Rothar, who was now very near a man in his own right.
There came a time when Rothar made his last trek to the Southlands, although nobody knew it at the time but him. Taria was living in Rama by then, and when Rothar found her there, she was in a terrible state. The men had returned from some far off mission and were in a vicious and lustful mood. Whenever mercenaries returned from long travels they tended to lay claim to as many women as they could. Taria had been in hiding for two days. She had become very beautiful, and she had seen the way some of the barbaric men looked at her. It made her shudder.
“You must take me back with you, Rothar,” she pleaded in Caltanian. “You must smuggle me out of the desert. I can live in the woods as you do. You know I can do it.”
Rothar looked at her sorrowfully. “It’s impossible, Taria, it could bring war between our people.”
Taria shook her head vigorously. “No, no. They will think I ran away and got lost. I will send a horse out with some of my things. I have it all planned. They will think I am dead! I cannot stay here, Rothar, I will not survive!”
The words broke Rothar’s heart. He knew he could not take her, and he knew that he could not tell her the real reason why. If he were returning to the northern forest to continue his life as a huntsman, then perhaps he could take on the enormous risk of stealing a Southland woman. In fact, he probably would, just to have the satisfaction of knowing he robbed the devils of something good, something they did not deserve. It maddened him to think of Taria belonging to one of these cruel thugs, but the road ahead of him was one he could only travel alone. He was leaving the clan as soon as the group got back to the Banewood.
He steeled himself against his righteous emotions.
“This is your place, Taria,” he said to the girl trembling in front of him. “You must be strong. Someday, you may rule this land, but you cannot go with me.”
With that, Rothar turned and left her. Faintly, he could hear the sounds of weeping as he walked quickly through the sandy lanes of Rama. There was a knot in his throat, but he did not turn back, and he never saw Taria again.
***
What Peregrin had said to him was significant, because Rothar had thought often of Taria. He had never returned to the Southlands, and had only occasional contact with his old huntsman clan. He had never heard nor asked about her fate. He felt ashamed to think of it now, but he would not have been surprised to learn that Taria had ended her life after that day. Her eyes had shone with fear, and he truly could not have imagined her becoming the concubine of the devils. He wondered why she had not run away. A life alone and wandering in the badlands would have been fraught with peril, but surely would be better for a soul like Taria than a lifetime of servitude and abuse.
A pang of guilt that Rothar had long since buried manifested itself in his gut, but he shook it off. Just before that final journey into the south so many years ago, the clan had been hunting the northern Banewood, near where the shore of the Amethyst Sea met the wood and the meadow that stretched to the King’s City. While on the hunt Rothar had caught sight of the north spire of Castle Staghorn. A red banner flew at it’s peak.
The colors of the kingdom were blue and gold, and no other color ever flew from the castle spires. However, in the war games of Rothar and his castle playmate, many years before, crimson was the color of their little felt banners. The night that Rothar ran away from Castle Staghorn, his friend had made him a promise. “When I become King, I will raise our banner above the castle. When you see it, you must come back to me.”
Rothar loved the Banewood, he loved the huntsmen, perhaps he even loved Taria, but he had made his friend a promise. He had only remained with the clan a short while longer, in order to go to the Southlands and say farewell to Taria.
Chapter 16
Rothar reached the southern edge of the Banewood when the sun was high in the sky. An oppressive heat penetrated the dense canopy where he stopped to let Stormbringer rest and to don his disguise. The heat would be far worse on the Valley of Mourning, away from the shelter of the trees.
Putting on the bronze breastplate, Rothar noticed for the first time that it was spattered with blood. He began to wipe it off, but decided to leave it. More evidence of battle. He poured a splash of water from his flask into the pouch of cinnamon and mixed it together with a stick. Rubbing the mixture onto his hands, he was pleased to see that it really did give his skin the hue of a desert dweller, although he would still be sure to do his direct dealings with the Southlanders in as little light as possible, just to be safe. His hair would not be a problem, as it was black just as theirs was.
Rothar checked his reflection in a still pool nearby. It was not perfect, but it would have to be enough. What he lacked in appearance he would have to make up for in cleverness.
When he and Stormbringer rode up the rocky slope that opened up onto the Valley of Mourning, Rothar could see the eastern edge of the great wall far below him. The massive edifice looked so inadequate from his vantage point, he wondered if the Southlanders thought the same thing.
Deeper and deeper between the climbing out-ledges of the southern mountain range they rode. The temperature rose and the soft winds of the Banewood were a distant memory. Stormbringer stepped carefully over toppled boulders and human skeletons, the latter becoming more and more common the farther they traveled through the valley.
Rothar’s eyes constantly scanned the rocks above them. The mountains provided many hiding places and the valley was a vulnerable position for man and horse, so he had to be vigilant. When they were on a high and narrow point in the valley, Stormbringer stopped and pricked his ears. Rothar heard it too, a faint clattering. Ahead he saw a small stone careening down the steep canyon wall. Looking skywards, he caught the quickest glimpse of something dark disappearing behind a boulder high above.
He nudged Stormbringer ahead and let his hand rest on his sword. They approached an outcropping. The face of the rock was darkened where someone had tried to remove telltale stain from it. Rothar removed his feet from the stirrups and pulled them up in front of him, then stood upright on Stormbringer’s saddle. Where the valley narrowed he stepped silently from the saddle onto a rock ledge and clamored to the top of the outcropping. Stormbringer calmly continued walking through the valley as Rothar cleaved his broadsword through the skull of the man hiding behind the outcropping.
Dropping back down onto the saddle, Rothar clicked for the horse to speed his pace. His kill had been silent, but he was being watched, and more mongrels were surely closing on them.
Thankfully he had thought to bring his bow. He had planned on perhaps needing it to hunt food, however, this was a convenient time to use it as well. Stormbringer trotted on as Rothar notched an arrow and fell a dirty rebel that was trying to scale down from an overlook. An axe arched silently down from another low cliff and missed Rothar by a foot. He waited patiently for the owner of the axe to peek above the rocks before threading an arrow through his eye. After that, the day fell quiet again, save for the distant sounds of retreating footsteps.
Rothar wiped sweat from his neck. The cinnamon camouflage was running and stinging his eyes. By the time he reached Rama he would look like nothing more than a northerner in dire need of a bath. He would have to reapply the paste when evening came and the heat subsided. He was thankful that he had already darkened his skin before entering the valley, however. Very few Southlanders used a bow, and those who did were highly feared and respected. The Southlanders had no formal ranks within their warriors, but certain unspoken rules applied. A man who was expert with a bow would be considered a master warrior. If Rothar’s attackers saw the bow and believed he was a Southland master, it would explain their hasty retreat. Little did they know they were dealing with a northern master, the King’s master himself.
***
The rest of the trip through the Valley of Mourning was quiet, save for the constant calls of circling buzzards. At long last the sun mercifully dipped behind the western cliffs and shade enveloped the pathway. Rothar halted Stormbringer twice to give the horse water, and to time his arrival at Rama.
Rama was the largest and most progressive settlement in the Southlands, and was situated at the southern mouth of the Valley of Mourning.
Many of the settlements beyond the mountains were little more than encampments. Large brown tents dotted widespread areas of the desert, with small fenced enclosures for goats or skinny cows with protruding ribs. Outside of every settlement was a large ring, made of stones, with a bonfire in the middle that is kept burning day and night. During the day, boys too young to be sent into the far desert spar and train under the tutelage of aged warriors too old to carry out paid missions. At night, the men entertained themselves and their jeering womenfolk by battling one another with staffs and clubs around the roaring fire, bloodying each other until the morning comes.
Rama, however, nearly resembled an actual civilized town. There were permanent structures here and there between the large tents, with smoke lazily drifting up from chimneys attached to indoor cookstoves. Outside of the city, near the large fighting arena, was a fenced in pasture where the finest horses of the Southlanders were bred and broken.
Just as night was creeping in, Rothar rode out onto the rocky flats at the foot of the southern mountains that overlooked the endless desert. Rama sat below him, the light of tiny, distant torches dotted the desert floor and mirrored the starry sky above. It felt as if he were standing on the edge of the world, staring off into infinite space, above and below. This was the same picture of Rama that Rothar had carried with him for many years, only the last time he saw that spectral scene he was looking back over his shoulder.
He circled Stormbringer back away from the flat and found a cove to hide in while he evened out his color. Rothar had to work carefully, going by feel alone with nothing to check his reflection in. It was dark enough that he would not have to have it perfect, anyhow. His speech, on the other hand, was not a thing he could hide under cover of night. Rothar’s Caltanian was fluent, but his accent was off. He would have to limit his words to avoid raising suspicion.
Looking down on the city below, he saw a crowd gathering around the glowing flames of the crude arena, as the nightly games were about to begin. Most of the settlement would be sleeping, or at the arena, so Rothar prepared to enter Rama.
He removed Stormbringer’s saddle and stashed it in the cove. All Southlander’s rode bareback and the saddle would be a dead giveaway. He also left the bow and his broadsword. The mercenaries carried the short, curved blades of the desert, so he would have to carry only his dagger, concealed in his boot. Hopefully he would not need it.
Riding down into the city, a roar came up from a large crowd now gathered around the arena. A short and wiry Southlander was leaping back and forth over the blazing bonfire, taunting his larger and slower opponent. Then the quick little man misjudged his distance from his adversary, and midway through a leap the big man caught him in the chest with a blow from his staff, dropping him flat on his back in the middle of the roaring fire.
Southlanders never brought their horses into the settlement, so Rotha
r cantered Stormbringer to the large coral and tied him off to a post. Unloading the hefty satchel containing the head of Brath, he set out to find the largest tent in Rama.
Torches lit the sandy pathways, and not a soul stirred within the settlement besides a pair of mangy dogs fighting over a bone. Occasional swells of shouts or laughter carried over from the arena on the edge of the desert, and Rothar worried that Chief Bakal would be attending the fights. His concerns changed, however, when he found the the entrance to the dominant tent in the center of the settlement was guarded by two Southlander soldiers. Bakal was certainly home.
The sentries had most likely seen him approaching, so Rothar did not hesitate. He reminded himself that he was one of them, for all they knew, and he strode up to the guards with confidence.
“I must see Bakal,” he said in Caltanian.
The guards carried only swords, and did not even wear breastplates. Rothar guessed they must be apprentices or young men who were unimpressive in their desert training.
“Bakal is busy, come back tomorrow,” one of the sentries said in a bored voice.
“I will see him tonight,” Rothar snapped. He was playing the part of a Southland soldier, and could not be meek before these underlings.
The guards looked at one another, neither one willing to make the decision to allow him entry or send him away.
Rothar growled and simply walked between them. The men were so stunned that they failed to seize him and stumbled into the tent behind him.
“What is the meaning of this?” roared a voice from the far end of the tent. “I said no visitors!”